


Purple

by MagicalStranger13



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:25:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicalStranger13/pseuds/MagicalStranger13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lonely goblin prince gets to see fairies and elves for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Purple

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, that's +100 hits!  
> At last, it's HERE! The Pansy Incident I mentioned in my earlier fic, "It's Magic!" I hope you guys enjoy, I'm very proud of this one.  
> I don't think anyone has used this name for Bog's father yet. If you have, I apologize!  
> Prepare yourself for angsty Kid-Bog ahead.  
> I will say right now that the actual Pansy part does NOT make up the bulk of this story!

Soft beams of milky light poured through the dense tree-line of the Dark Forest. The climbing sun that bore them, was gradually warming everything to the appropriate summer temperature, but the echoing chill professed the lateness of the season.  Autumn was just around the corner.  

Except for the occasional toad croak or whistle of a distant bird, all was hushed and serene at dawn in this extraordinary place.

There was only _one_ other sound that broke the peace like a stone hurled through spider-glass.

“Hahrry up, boy!  Dorn’t keep me waitin’!”

It was the gruff and powerful voice of the almighty Briar King.  Ruler of this expansive, looming realm and Lord of its wild, goblin inhabitants.  

The order had been given to his son, Bog. 

The young prince was the near spitting image of his father.  He was tall for only eight years, yet he didn’t look like a common goblin.  His body was covered, almost head to toe, in buckeye-smooth plates of grayish-brown chitin; like armor made from tree-bark.  The exoskeleton was not as rigid and thick as his father’s, but that would improve with time.  His skinny legs were like two birch saplings, with thorn-like protrusions along the lower half of his calves.  The gangly limbs, his surprisingly narrow waist in comparison to his much wider chest, and his iridescent wings, made him seem more insect than goblin.

Yet, he was not an insect either.  Though still oddly thin for a goblin, his facial features were sharp.  A beaked nose, two highly pronounced cheekbones, and a long, smooth jawline that ended in a firm and pointed chin.  His hands and feet were both large and tipped with deadly claws.  Although the latter was far truer to goblin form: thick and dirt-colored, with an extra thumb-like toe.  The former were peculiar only for their size and number in fingers: five instead of the regular three or four. 

Last, were the eyes.  A gleaming pair of blue to rival the clearest of mid-day skies.  Not a trait _ever_ seen among normal goblins _or_ insects.             

The boy was struggling to keep up with his father’s relentless soaring speed.  His four dragonfly wings, smooth and unbroken as newly frozen rivulets (a plain sign of his youth), twitched fast enough to blur them from casual sight.  His back strained with the effort, far too much for one his age, but he did not _dare_ show his discomfort, nor ask for a rest. 

“I’m comin’, father!”  He replied in the voice of a child eager to please his parent: high and determined; with the same inherited accent lacing his syllables.  

Despite his fatigue, Bog was _excited_ about today.  His father had decided to take him along to the border! 

Bog had always been vaguely aware of the neighboring kingdom, but only in discussions he’d overheard between his mother, father and the goblin court about trading spice and ore for medicines and fabric or ensuring security. 

According to rumor, the other kingdom was just as old as the Dark Forest and possessed a variety of subjects.  The words _fairies_ and _elves_ had been thrown around from time to time, usually with a condescending sneer, and though he understood the practice had been forbidden since the early reign of his grandfather, Bog had once been informed that goblins used to _eat_ them. 

Still, he had never _seen_ a fairy _or_ an elf before!  No one liked to talk about them any more than necessary, and there were not even any drawings for reference.  Only a few weeks ago, after some steady prying from one of his father’s sentries for some sort of physical description, did Bog learn that the _fairies_ , in particular, were just different looking… _winged_ creatures.

 _That_ had caught his notice like a bug in a web. 

 _Different_. 

Could that mean that they were different…like _him_?  Would he maybe get to _meet_ one? 

He had banished the idea almost as soon as it had formed.  If there was _one_ thing he’d learned from eavesdropping on those council meetings, it was that the Dark Forest and the Fairy Kingdom were absolutely _not_ allies. 

Bog had tried to balance out the disappointment of, once again, not being able to possibly make a friend, with the thrilling chance of at least _seeing_ a creature that was as _strange_ in appearance to his own land as he was. 

He flapped his adolescent wings hard, drawing strength from recesses he didn’t know he had.  He would _not_ ruin this opportunity by making his father lose his already limited patience.

The royal pair glided through the overgrown foliage, their ashy bodies and reflective wings causing occasional pale glints as they passed through the slants of waking daylight strong enough to penetrate the canopy.      

Bog was startled when his father took an abrupt dive towards the slope of a ravine where a few dots of dull pink came into view. 

As the distance between them and the travelers diminished, Bog could see that those dots were a kind of exceptionally large flower, as big as his father’s broad torso.  Not many flowers grew to such a size in these woods, if at _all_. 

Already curious, and all soreness momentarily ignored, the prince hovered above the blossom like a hungry fly over a corpse, examining every fragile inch.  The pink bled into slivers of red, then yellow.  The miltiple stigma were erect in the petals’ center, like posing worms.  It had a sweet, spicy scent that made him grimace slightly, but it was altogether pleasing enough. 

“Wha’ is it?” He asked, noticing a crooked line of the flower’s siblings stretching as far as he could see from north to south. 

“Tis’ a primrose.” The Briar King answered lowly, tapping the stalk with the base of his staff.  “They grow only along tha’ border o’ tha’ kingdoms.  Their petals can be used tah make Lofe Potions.”

“Love Potions?”

“Aye, yer grandfather used one on yer grandmother so ‘e could marry ‘er.  But they can only be made by spirits, like tha’ legendary Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“Oh.” 

Bog had often heard the tales of such spirits.  His mother, queen Griselda, loved to stimulate his imagination with such stories before bedtime.    

_…along tha’ border o’ tha’ kingdoms…_

!

Bog’s head whipped up towards the top of the slope.  The morning’s broken rays reached horizontally over the crest.  His keen ears picked up the muffled sound of twittering birds, humming bees and…laughter?

He was so struck by the notion of how _close_ he was, he couldn’t move at first.  Only the sight of his father ascending brought the feeling back to his muscles and he stumbled to follow him.

They landed on the root of a massive willow tree, growing awkwardly on the incline.  Its draping leaves obscured the world beyond. 

Bog held his breath and waited for his father's next course of action.          

Without introduction or warning, Briar held out his amber-crowned staff and pulled back the curtain of hanging willow branches.

The sudden burst of concentrated light stabbed at Bog’s eyes and he shrank back with a cry of alarm, shielding his face behind his hands.

“Enuffa’ tha’!”  His father growled.  “Come ‘ere, boy!”   

Bog instinctually fought to comply, but it was painfully difficult.  The whiteness before him was blinding, and he had _never_ felt the _heat_ of the sun before.  It frightened him.

“Did ye _hear_ me, boy?  I said come ‘ere, _now_!”

However, _nothing_ could overcome the fear his father’s wrath incurred.  He slowly forced his eyes to open and his feet to step carefully forward. 

At first, all he could see were the lines of his long fingers, black against the demanding radiance.  Thankfully, though, the radiance soon morphed into colors and shapes, but…

Bog rapidly blinked as his vision cleared. 

…The Fairy Kingdom…

He could never have _dreamed_ …!  

Beyond the primrose border, lay a vast meadow.  Lush, green grass covered the flat ground.  Only a winding, narrow stream and the random tree or boulder served as solid landmarks. 

Dusting the far-reaching landscape, was the largest collection of flowers Bog had ever seen; many of which _dwarfed_ the primroses!  Their color tones were so _bright_!  Scarlet, gold, white, orange!  The sun made them all pop and burn. 

On and off the earth, smaller shapes darted and shuffled about with such enthusiasm, it took Bog a few seconds to properly distinguish them. 

Frogs.

Horseflies.

Turtles.

Bees.

Squirrels.

Moths.

and-!

For one brief instant, Bog thought he saw a handful of small goblins sprinting about in the grass, but…no…those weren’t…

“Wha’ are _those_ , Dad?”

The four-fingered creatures were short and stocky in build and they seemed to be wearing scraps of cloth on their bodies and feet.  Any skin that was exposed was ruddy and…kind of… _mushy_.  Tufts of unruly hair served as their only natural protection.  The upward octave of their voices suggested that they might be around Bog’s own age. 

“They’re elves.  Tha’ workin’ class o’ this kingdom; an’ _those_ ,” Briar raised his staff to point, “are tha'  _fairies_.”

Bog’s till tender eyes followed the staff and he felt his jaw loosen as he realized that the creatures he’d initially assumed were moths, were… _not_. 

Their wings were much bigger than those of the nocturnal ones he was accustomed to back home, and though the males seemed to have the same fuzzier texture and color pattern, the females’ wings resembled those of butterflies.  _Their_ brilliance put the flowers below to _shame_. 

Similar to the elves, they wore coverings, but of finer thread.  They had the same delicate skin, though fairer, like peaches; and the same mass of glossy hair atop their heads.     

Their child-frames were taller and leaner, though Bog could tell he would still be head and shoulders above them.  _Five_ fingers adorned _their_ slim hands. 

A giggling song, much peppier than the braying tunes of the Dark Forest, floated on the breezy air:

_Sun is shinin’ in the sky_

_There ain’t a cloud in sight_

_It’s stopped rainin’_

_Everybody’s in a play_

_And don’t you know_

_It’s a beautiful new day_

_Hey!_

Bog was mesmerized.  By goblin _and_ insect standards, both of these new species were the most bizarre creatures he’d ever beheld.  Yet, there was…something about them…specifically the _fairies_ …that kept his attention.

The questions came pouring forth.

“Why do they choose tah live ‘n this wide open space?  Isn’t tha' dangerous?  Aren’t they afraid o’ gettin’ snatched up by birds or snakes?”   

“They’re a foolish lot,” his father snorted, scanning the fields with a moderate amount of disdain, “but wha’ passes fer predators ‘n _these_ parts is _pathetic_.  A fairy would neah’ last a minute 'n tha’ Dark Forest.  With those ridiculous wings, they’d be spotted 'n a heartbeat.”

_Mr. Blue Sky_

_Please tell us why_

_You had to hide away for so long_

_So long_

_Where did we go wrong?_

Bog watched some of the female fairies dip and swirl around a stump, their pastel wings glowing in the sun. 

“They’re sor’ a pretty, though.”  He couldn’t help commenting. 

“They are _loud_ an'  _impractical_!  Dorn’t talk _nonsense_ , boy!”  His father snapped, making the lad flinch. 

“I’m s-sorry, father.”

Bog mentally cursed himself for stuttering and for speaking so.  As future king, it would _not_ do to harbor such idiotic thoughts.

_Hey there, Mr. Blue!_

_We’re so pleased to be with you_

_Look around, see what you do_

_Everybody smiles at you_

They continued to observe the fairies and elves.  Every once in a while, the Briar King would mutter something about the shaky trade lines and the violent histories between the kingdoms’ races. 

Eventually, the children created a new game.  The elves would climb onto a rock overlooking the stream and hurl themselves off the edge.  Their fairy partner would then swoop in and catch them.  The more successful catches had, the more points were earned. 

“Wow that looks like fun!  Can I play too, Dad?”  Bog impulsively asked.

By the time he recognized his mistake, it was far too late, for the Briar King knocked him backwards off the willow root with the staff and crowded him into the shadows.

The jarring return to the Dark Forest smothered Bog’s senses as if he’d been dropped into a muddy pond.  Without the needed time to adjust, the loss of the glaring light made a persistent cloud pulse before his eyes.  The Fairy Kingdom colors and images he’d seen were now murky and gruesomely distorted. 

Swallowing his panic, Bog frantically shook his head to focus. 

“Are ye _daft_ , boy?!”  His father roared, making his terrified son crouch in the soil.  “ARE YE STARK _RAVIN_ ’?!”   

Bog’s arms shot up over his head to avoid another blow from the staff.  He bit his cheek to keep his tears at bay.  If _they_ were _seen_ , he most certainly _would_ be struck again.

Luckily another hit never came, only more shouting.

“ _WE_ are _GOBLINS_ , boy!  We are _proud_ WARRIORS!  We _dorn’t_ PLAY wi’ simperin’, _fairy_ BRATS!  Do ye understand me, boy?!   _DO YE_?!”

“Yes!  _Yes_ , father!  I understand you!”  The prince cried, keeping his head bowed and his body curled like a dead leaf.  “I’m sorry!  I’m _sorry_!  Please, fe’rgive me, yer _majesty_!”

Almost trembling with anger, the ruthless monarch bared his fangs and towered over his sole offspring, his azure eyes as frigid and unyielding as two chunks of fresh ice.

Bog held his breath and submissive pose, not knowing what to expect from his father’s unpredictable temper.

But his parent’s ire was short-lived, _this_ time.  Briar’s snarl melted into a stony glare as he stepped away from his son and retreated into the darkness. 

“Come away now, boy.” 

Cautiously, Bog rose to his feet, but something, he wasn’t quite sure _what_ , kept him from moving.

“Wha’ is it _now_?”  His father bit out, catching the hesitancy.  “Dorn’t ye make me repea’ myself!”

“It’s…it’s jus’…jus’…”

“Speak _up_!”

“ _Nobody_ ever plays with me.”  Bog admitted with a sad frown.  “The other goblin children…they…they say I look… _weird_.”

Something akin to empathy flashed in the Briar King’s eyes as he looked at Bog.  He understood all too well the pain of isolation his child was going through.  Not many goblins were as open hearted as his dear wife and queen. 

Unfortunately, the compassion was gone as quickly as it had come.  One too many decades of harsh discipline had been hammered into Briar’s hide, so he was unable to provide his son with the gentle assurance he needed.  Instead, he responded in the only way he knew how. 

“Yer tha’ _prince_ of the Dark Forest.”  He retorted.  “Tha’ _heir_ tah mah _throne_!  Ye dorn’t ‘ave time fer childish games!  Ye ‘ave more importan’ things tah do!  Ye _dorn’t_ need _friends_!  Ye need _followers_!”

Bog’s forlorn gaze fell to the forest floor. 

“Besides, lad,” his father went on in an unusually smoother tone as he glanced once more toward the border, “ye’ll find _no_ kindred spirit among _their_ kind.  Fairies an’ elves find goblins _‘ideous_ enough as i’ is.  Bes’ ye fe’rge' it.”

The stinging truth of the king’s words made something in Bog’s gut clench and sink.  The sensation was eased _only_ by a _single_ word in his father’s next command:

“Le’s go now… _Bog_.”

The prince’s head jerked up, gaping in hopeful astonishment.  His father hardly _ever_ used his _given_ name.  Among _their_ culture, it was a _distinct_ show of respect!

Obediently and with a grin, Bog took flight with his father, leaving his worries and the chorusing Fairy Kingdom behind.

_Mr. Blue you did it right_

_But soon comes Mr. Night_

_Creepin’ over_

_Now his hand is on your shoulder_

_Never mind_

_I’ll remember you this~_

_I’ll remember you this way_

* * *

Bog hopped over a fallen log, swatting at gnats with a stick as he made his way through the Dark Forest on foot.  It had been two days since his trek to the border, but his wings were still aching, so when he could, he opted not to use them. 

He was currently making the most of the three hours of free time he’d been given, now that the king had been summoned to the marshes on urgent business.  Ordinarily, he’d have a goblin escort tailing him, but the two bumbling guards he’d been assigned had fallen asleep under a yucca plant, so he abandoned them. 

It didn’t bother him; by now, he was used to the solitude and he wasn’t afraid.  He knew his way around.          

Though his father had kept him very busy with combat training and spell casting, the Briar Prince couldn’t stop thinking about the Fairy Kingdom and its prominent citizens. 

He wondered why they _all_ wore clothes.  Why they had so much pudgy flesh.  Why they sang such happy songs.  Why they flew so high above the ground.  Why their wings were so vibrant.  What was their culture like?  What did they eat?  What kind of houses did they live in?  How did they hunt for prey with such rounded nails and blunt teeth?  How did they avoid _being_ hunted?     

Such inquiries would likely never be answered.  Nobody seemed to know _anything_ substantial about fairies _or_ elves, and nobody seemed to _care_.

Bog was roused from his musings once he saw that his aimless wandering had led him to a clearing.  But not just _any_ clearing, _this_ was a testament to the Dark Forest’s famous ability to hide its splotches of beauty away like priceless treasure.

A patch of violet and indigo pansies filled the sheltered area.

He walked leisurely through the blossoms until a plump, purple one made him pause.

Bog had always favored the purple ones.  Actually, he liked the _color_ purple more than any other color in the world.  It stood out enough in the Dark Forest to be an anomaly, but the deep hue still made it familiar enough to _belong_.

Purple was like _him_.

A thought came then, unexpected and probably silly, but…when he remembered those fairies, he hadn’t _seen_ one among them with wings _this_ color.  Did fairies like that _exist_?

Some tiny, buried part of him sincerely hoped so. 

A fairy with _purple_ wings!

Now _that_ would be something to see!

Hit with innocent inspiration, Bog plucked two great petals from the pansy and lined them up under each of his arms.  Once satisfied, he ran laughing through the glade, fluttering his make-shift fairy wings, and attempting to sing that song he’d heard, to the best his memory allowed.

_Mr. Blue Sky!_

_Please tell us why_

_Ye ‘ad tah…da-da-da-da…hmm-hmm_

_La, la!_

“Weeeeeeeee!”

_Hey there, Mr. Blue!_

_Bum-ba-da-da-dum-ba-dum…_

_La, la, la, see wha’ ye do_

“Ha, ha, ha!”

_Everybody smiles a’ you_

So caught up in his solitary game of pretend, he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, until their owner (a squat, read-headed goblin) called out an _extremely_ amused greeting.

“Hi!”  

“ _MOM_!”  The prince screamed.  Too shocked to catch himself with his _real_ wings, he tripped over his own huge feet and landed face-first in the dirt.

The pansy petals covered him like blankets.

The Briar Queen lost her smirk and rushed to her son’s side to help him up.

As soon as she was convinced that he wasn’t injured, she suddenly, and with practiced finesse, seized the boy in a headlock with one arm, swiped the thumb of her free hand across her tongue and began using it to wipe at his grimy cheeks.

“Ew!  Mo- _om_!”  Bog whined, squirming unsuccessfully for escape.  “ _Gross_!  That’s go’ yer spit on it!  Let _go_!”

“Oh, quit your fussing and hold still.” Griselda ordered, tightening her grip on her boy’s head and pressing her wet finger more firmly against his smudged face.  “You’re _filthy_!”

When she _did_ let him go, Bog crawled a few feet away from her, blushing and grumbling about this, now _doubly_ , humiliating turn of events. 

“You make an _adorable_ fairy,” his mom teased with a chuckle as she sat down on a nearby stone, “but I _still_ prefer you the way you were _born_.”

Bog huffed before his blood ran cold.

“Y-Yer no’ gonna tell _dad_ , are you?!”  He shouted in agitation as he scrambled over to his mother and clutched at her lap.  “Mom, _please_ dorn’t tell dad abou’ this, _PLEASE_!  He’ll yell a' me an’ beat me with his staff an’ make me eat nothin’ but toadstool haggis for six days!  Oh, _please_ mom-!”

“Honey, honey!  Take it easy!”  Griselda cut in, wrapping her arms around her son and trying not to laugh at his overreaction.  “I’m _not_ gonna _tell_ anyone.”

“Y-Ye won’t?” Bog sniffed.  His mother was the _only_ person he could cry in front of and not run the risk of ridicule or punishment.  “Really?  No’ even dad?”

“ _No_ , not even dad.  I _swear_ I’ll _never_ tell a _soul_.  It’ll be our… _fascinating_ little secret, okay?” She booped his nose.  “Now relax your thorax and sit here with me.”

Rubbing his nose and calming down his distress, Bog adjusted himself so that he was sitting _against_ the stone rather than _on_ it.  This put them at a more even eye-level.  At only eight, he still had a good couple of inches on his mother.

She might be vertically challenged, but she was slender and attractive, nonetheless.  Her chalky skin was the only gene she’d managed to pass on to Bog around his face, ears and neck.  Two cragged bone stubs, where a pair of impressive horns once were, protruded from her temples.  She was also one of the few goblins that chose to _accessorize_.  A dress of leaves and a headband of strung-together shell pieces was her signature fashion. 

Bog’s relationship with her was nearly the opposite of the one he shared with his father.  When she wasn’t _annoying_ him, his mother was his greatest source of comfort when things just got…too tough for him to handle, which happened a lot more often than he wanted to acknowledge.           

As they sat together and enjoyed the quiet afternoon, Griselda took a minute to look her son over. 

There were some new cracks and scratches on his scales, curtesy of the Briar King.  She was not, however, worried by the evidence of violence.  It was completely normal goblin behavior. 

As king _and_ father, Briar was both asserting his dominance and showing his son how to achieve and maintain alpha status.  There would be many challengers once Bog assumed the throne, and the boy had to learn how to defend his title.  Besides, the marks would diminish, come his next molt.

Regardless, she _was_ somewhat concerned about Bog’s hysterical pleas for her _not_ to reveal what she’d witnessed to her husband. 

She knew better than anyone that Briar was not the easiest male in the world to live with.  He had grown up with even _less_ affection and she constantly did her best to make sure the connection between him and their son didn’t suffer for it. 

Perhaps it made her coddle her boy a tad more than necessary, but neither she, _nor_ Briar, wanted Bog to grow up without a sufficient amount of parental warmth.  Griselda just knew how to show it better. 

For her husband, it was an uphill battle, but at least he was _fighting_. 

The question was, did _Bog_ see the results?         

“Sweetheart,” Griselda began after some deliberation, “You shouldn’t be so scared of your father.”

“Dad is _scary_.”  The prince stated as if it was the most obvious fact anyone had ever known.

The queen chewed her lip, not sure how to explain this. 

“I know he is _most_ of the time, dearie, but…you _do_ know he _loves_ you, don’t you?”

Bog peered at his mother with confused eyes.  The words ‘love’ and ‘his father’ did not go together at _all_ , in his mind.  He was the fierce and bloodthirsty Briar King; he abhorred such weak terms.

Seeing that her son apparently _wasn’t_ comprehending her meaning, Griselda used an example. 

“Remember when you told me that your father called you by your given name the other day?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we both know that that’s _one_ goblin way of showing respect, but…did you ever consider that that might _also_ be one of your father’s ways of saying he loves you…without saying it out loud?”

Bog stared at her.

“Think of it this way,” she said as she placed a hand on his shoulder, “I tell you I love you all the time, but I also feed you, I clean you, I kiss you and hug you, I talk to you, I tell you stories, I play games with you.  All those things that I do for you, mean I _love_ you.  Even the things that don’t seem so nice.  Like when I raise my voice, or ground you or send you to clean out the sludge pits.  It’s because I want to be responsible and safe.  The same applies to your father, he just says it _differently_ than I do.  He yells and spars with you and gives you a hard time because he _cares_.  He wants you to be self-reliant and a strong leader.  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I…I guess so.” Bog replied, * _kricking_ * his neck in contemplation.  He supposed it _did_ make _some_ sense. 

Still _didn’t_ mean his dad wasn’t _scary_.  

The topic soon changed to less _abstract_ concepts.

* * *

Eventually, Griselda announced it was getting close to dinnertime and she planted a kiss to Bog’s brow.  For once, he only offered a _minimal_ amount of protest.

As they started back in the direction of the castle, he spoke up again:

“Mom?”

“Hmm?”

“…I wish…I wish I ‘ad a friend.”

“What do _I_ look like, chopped cricket?”

“I’m serious, mom!”

“…I know, sweetie, I know.  You _will_ someday, I _promise_.”

…

…

“Mom?  When dad took me tah tha’ border, ‘e showed me these flowers.”

“The primroses?”

“Yeah, ‘e said tha' spirits can use them tah make Love Potions an' tha' my grandfather used one on my grandmother.”

“Yes?”

“Did dad…use a Love Potion on _you_?”

His mother stopped and gave him a searching look.

“ _No_ , Bog.  I didn’t _need_ one.  I love your father for _exactly_ who he is.  I always have.”

“But, _grandfather_ needed one because…no one would ‘ave ‘im any other way?”

The queen dolefully nodded. 

“Do ye…do ye think _I’ll_ ever ‘ave tah use a…Love Potion?”

Griselda’s eyes widened a fraction.  Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but she didn’t say anything for a few moments. 

Her heart broke for her only child.  To her, he was _perfect_ ; her precious baby boy.  To everyone else, he was an _aberration_ , like his father and grandfather before him.  She knew there were plenty of people out there with enough kindness to potentially see how special her son was, but would _he_ be _patient_ enough to _wait_ for them?

One thing was for _certain_ , she did _not_ want him to be _alone_.  She would do _whatever_ it took to prevent him from suffering such a fate.           

Ultimately, she chose her response wisely.

“When you’re king, you’ll have the right to make your own decisions, but I _will_ say this: there are _no_ shortcuts to _love_.”

Spent for words, she resumed her pace then. 

Pensively, Bog trailed behind her, leaving the forgotten purple pansy wings lying in the day’s last pool of fading sunlight.  

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it! Scottish accents are HARD to type! Kid-Bog was SO much fun to write and I am ADDICTED to awesome mom, Griselda. Sorry if she seems a little OOC, but I imagine she got a bit senile with old age. Leave kudos or comments and I'll post another story once this reaches 100 hits!  
> 'Mr. Blue Sky' belongs to E.L.O.


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